


Of All the Goddamn Bars in Kentucky...

by Epictry



Category: Justified
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-10
Updated: 2012-04-10
Packaged: 2017-11-03 10:23:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/380350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Epictry/pseuds/Epictry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Friday night and that means Gutterson is off the clock and in Louisville to get drunk and hopefully stumble home with someone attractive. It's Quarles' first night in Kentucky and he meets a challenge in a pretty package at a Louisville bar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of All the Goddamn Bars in Kentucky...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [luciferinasundaysuit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/luciferinasundaysuit/gifts).



> Just a re-imagining of Season 3's beginning. Also, I needed an excuse to make this pairing happen. This is so far a WIP with just finishing the 1st chapter after starting on this at least two weeks ago. School tends to kidnap me and not let me write fic sometimes. Hopefully with the right amount of kudos and *gasp* comments I will be able to dodge school and update frequently.
> 
> For Diana and Amelia who keep encouraging this nonsense. :)

If he decided to drink socially, Deputy Tim Gutterson generally spent weeknights at the Veterans’ Club. If not, Gutterson sprawled out on the couch and surfed an entirely too expensive satellite package with a glass of whiskey on his chest or, in the case of a terrible day on the job, a bucket of ice with three cold beers, soaking in an Epsom salt bath.

On the weekends, when he knew that barring some intense redneck hillbilly bullshit which could not wait until business hours during the week, he could go get hammered six ways to Sunday – Gutterson drank somewhere completely different in Louisville. He’d found a spot near the capitol which had somehow managed to become slightly more progressive than the rest of Kentucky when it came to certain demographics. Unfortunately, it had not become so progressive to have a chic and hip urban name rather than a painfully stereotypical name like The Male Room. In spite of the name, Tim usually had a pretty good night there.

This night, a Friday night, Gutterson took off to Louisville as soon as he came off the clock. He’d been buried under a week’s worth of fallout from Raylan Givens’ latest avalanche of bullshit. At the least it made him seem even more of a squeaky clean Deputy to his boss. The fact that Rachel and he pulled two all-nighters on Tuesday and Wednesday for a stake-out still didn’t buy them any early quitting time on that Friday. Mullen said they could flex their hours, but alternating so they didn’t fall on the same day. Being the consummate gentleman, and hoping to have a long weekend outside of Lexington and the Eastern Division drama, he’d offered to take Monday’s flex hours so Rachel could have her day off sooner rather than later. She promised coffee the entire next week, and while that only meant four days of coffee for him, it sweetened the deal exponentially. Gutterson really didn’t take much to please.

Inside The Male Room, Tim bought a drink and chose a seat at a small table rather than a stool at the bar. He couldn’t shake the nervous churning in the pit of his stomach when he tried to sit at an actual bar outside of the Veteran’s Club. He simply preferred to have his back to a wall and front door in his eye line, but only if he couldn’t sit in a corner and have full view of all the entrances and exits. Sitting at the table kept his anxiety level in check and, as a bonus, he got the first glance of anyone worth talking to as soon as they set foot in the door. So when an average height, medium build, blonde-haired and ice-blue-eyed, early forties man walked in, dressed impeccably in a three piece suit no less, Tim followed the stranger’s path with his eyes straight to the bar. The man, sticking out like a sore thumb even in the best dressed bar in Kentucky, stepped up to the precise center of the bar, meticulously unbuttoned his suit jacket, and slid onto the stool. He then placed one hand on the mahogany bar top, and let the other rest casually on his lap. Tim drained his glass watching the obvious newcomer give the room a casual once-over while waiting for his drink; turned out to be Scotch.

Observing the white-blonde stranger’s three piece suit, navy jacket, blazer and slacks, set off with a lavender shirt and a light blue tie, Tim wished he’d maybe gone with a dark long-sleeve button-up instead of the white button up with short sleeves. He’d left the top two buttons open, going for a casual Friday look and revealing the collar of his white undershirt beneath and the outline of his dog tags. Thankfully his work slacks were sans dust from any dirt road adventures and tight against his skin. He’d traded his work boots – well, tactical boots, but to him they were just work boots – for a pair of black loafers. While not very adventurous or unique, he thought the loafers gave a better first impression than the boots.

Gutterson mentally catalogued the various angles he could take in getting the blonde sugar daddy’s attention. In his experience, he usually had the advantage or felt that he did, when it came to flattery, flirting and selling himself as a great catch. This stranger sparked a little intimidation inside him. He knew in a gun fight, a fist fight, and any other kind of special circumstance, he would have the upper hand. He just had this feeling that anyone so well put together would appreciate Tim’s wit, but would also probably rival or match it. He didn’t know if he had the energy for that after his day, but he didn’t want to let any moodiness from being worn out make the night a bust. He decided waiting until the Scotch ran low to send another drink over would take too long and just leave time for his nerves to mount. Continuing to stare from the corner could work against him rather than for him if he just looked like a young, creepy, semi-professional redneck trolling for a hate crime. That left him one angle, which normally he’d consider to be tipping his hand and looking a little desperate. In this situation, that seemed to be the lesser of the evils.

Gutterson strolled to the bar and set down his empty glass in front of him, skipping the presumption he could actually take the seat beside the attractive blonde. He pretended not to pay attention to the man seated beside him. On the walk over, he had already established the closer he got the better the view. The man at the bar had smooth skin and a healthy tan; not some bullshit out of a booth or spray joint. Tim couldn’t stand the orange, fake-bake, midlife crisis cases that strutted in. They usually had no idea what they were doing, couldn’t woo a rentboy, and as he’d learned on some of his earliest exploits, sometimes got cold feet and hot tempers when it came to show time. With this stranger, however, gold cufflinks sealed the deal. You had to be the real deal or a committed conman to go with the gold cufflinks.

Tim’s empty glass had been resting on the bar at least a minute while the bartender lingered at the other end taking some ridiculous recipe from a sloshed patron that had been well on the way to liver damage before Tim showed up. Gutterson sighed and looked down at the glass, willing it to fill up with some sort of whiskey. His entire premise had been coming to the bar with his empty glass for a refill, getting a closer look at the blonde and his startling blue eyes to feel the situation out. He knew he’d have to come up with some sort of small talk since he’d saddled up to the middle of the bar AND on the side of the hot stranger farthest from the barman. If he’d really been that thirsty he’d have walked over to the sloshed patron and set his glass down with emphasis.

Before Tim could get out a scathing comment about the service and the wait and anything to detract from any awkwardness, the stranger turned to look at him and smiled.

“It looks like he may be a while. You _can_ sit while you wait, you know.”

Gutterson nearly froze, but somehow his limbs took over where his brain seized up and he slid onto the stool easily and propped his forearms on the bar. He hadn’t expected the guy to speak to him, but the fact he didn’t have to work harder for the attention helped him to relax. He did have to admit compared to the other eligible men scattered around the place, he probably did have an edge with his button up and the dress shoes.  

“I appreciate it.” Tim replied, “That guy at the end has been on the highway to hell since before I arrived.”

“It’s a Friday night. Shouldn’t this place have a second bartender or a bar back or something?” asked the stranger, sardonically, before displaying two straight rows of perfect white teeth.

“Well, you’d think a high class joint like The Male Room would spring for it, but I guess the economy took that luxury out of the cards.”

The stranger laughed heartily. Tim looked at the ice in his glass, swirled his wrist and clinked the cubes and chips around, slowly allowing a smile spread his lips. He doubted this man had ever even considered a pinch of dip going under his lip. Gutterson worried for a moment what it said about his set of standards that he got a little extra excited to be in the presence of someone with dental hygiene. He had seen too many snaggleteeth, gums, rotting teeth in various combinations of black and yellow, just that week alone to last a life time. Sometimes, he really loathed Kentucky. However, it was better than West Virgina and damn sight better than Ohio, so he’d keep his head down and mouth shut.

“Robert Quarles.” The stranger said lifting his hand from lap and stretching it over his opposite forearm still resting on the bar, to offer it to Tim.

“Tim Gutterson.” Tim supplied, reaching over in a similarly awkward, arm-crossed fashion, to shake Quarles’ hand.

At that instant he wondered if he’d stumbled upon another case of a very out of town stranger who happened into the first place he saw with a liquor sign lit up in the window. It had happened a few times that an out of towner, bellied up to the bar, not pausing to consider the connotation of the bar’s name. Another disconcerting thought was that not too many handshakes preceded pick up lines, at least in Tim’s experience anyway. For Robert Quarles, this could be a misguided attempt at networking in a capitol city.

“And what brings you here to this bar tonight, Tim Gutterson?”

“Rightfully, I should be asking you that. I’m here many a Friday night, Mr. Quarles.”

“As spent as this line is, ‘Mr. Quarles is my father’. Call me Robert.”

Tim smirked and clinked the ice in his glass again.

“Okay, Robert. So what brings you to Louisville? You wouldn’t happen to be a business man in that tailored suit of yours?”

“Oh you noticed. I get that less the farther I travel into Appalachia.” Quarles took a delicate sip of his Scotch and exhaled with a faint hiss. “No offense.” He paused. “I can tell by your drawl you’re not a recent transplant.”

“None taken. A minute ago, I actually told myself to play it cool since you do have all your teeth.”

Quarles laughed again, smirking and turning his glass around on the napkin. In the nick of time, since Tim had been experiencing some vertigo during this game of flirting, the bartender stepped up and Tim pointed down at the glass.

“Another double.”

“And keep them coming.” Quarles added with a wry grin and a wink.

Tim’s stomach did a full somersault and landed somewhere between his throat and his chest. He swallowed and smiled, then prayed to whatever God could hear him that for at least the next hour or however long it took to get sufficiently sauced with Robert Quarles that he didn’t say the wrong thing. As Tim looked over at his newest conquest, he found Quarles looking directly at him. That perfect smile had nothing on Quarles’ clear blue eyes.

Tim barely registered the bartender filling his glass back to the line until out of his periphery he caught sight of him meandering away. Tim lifted the glass up to his lips and took a quick sip, raising his eyebrows at Quarles before posing a question.

“So what brings you here again?”

“You had it right. I’m a businessman. Down from Detroit to try to persuade the good folks of Kentucky’s major cities to embrace franchise opportunities.”

“That’s quite a sales pitch. As long as you’re not trying to compete with Wal-Mart you should do just fine.”

“Really,” Quarles chuckled.

“Oh, they’ve got it in the bag. Clothes, shoes, groceries, furniture, tires, fishing rods – you name it. Except porn and liquor; they haven’t quite gotten the hang of that, yet.”

“Man cannot live by bread alone.” Said Quarles, taking another sip, this one more substantial than the last.

“I’m not sure if that was the exact context the Lord had in mind.” Tim replied smirking, looking over to Robert and letting his eyes rest an extra few seconds on his strong jaw and full lips.

“So, if I may ask, since you’re not dropping any hints, what do you do?”

The smirk disappeared from Tim’s lips, but he replaced it mechanically, looking down at his glass. He’d answered this question before to both great disapproval and slightly disturbing enthusiasm. He found that his dates or meetings to that effect went best if nothing came up about work and jobs. He mentally kicked himself for being the one to introduce the topic in the first place. He knew he’d blocked himself into a corner and wasn’t sure if he wanted to lie his way out of it.

“Lowly, public servant.” He replied.

“You a cop?”

Gutterson stiffened and shook his head with a laugh. “Definitely, not a cop.”

“Is that still a taboo down here in Kentucky?”

“I wouldn’t know. I left that question out at the end of all my job interviews.”

It was then Tim glanced down to Quarles’ lap and his hand resting casually on his knee. He hadn’t noticed the gold band on his ring finger until just then. Even when they’d shook hands, it had escaped him. Tim swallowed and brought his glass to his lips, putting back the whiskey in one healthy gulp. He either needed to get drunk enough not to care about it or too drunk to still be attractive to Quarles. Either way, he wanted to avoid the lapse of his morals.

“Enough about work then; I’m not too thrilled about my position in the company, truth be told.” Robert took another sip and set the glass down, snapping for the bartender and pointing down at Tim’s empty glass.

“You work for a shithead or have a bunch of shitheads that work for you?”

“A little of both.” Quarles said, eyeing his Scotch for a moment before replacing his smile and changing the subject.

“So, what about the dog tags? Reserves or -?”

“Vet. I opted out of the reserves after my tour was up. I’d seen all the shitty villages of the world that I think I could ever hope to see. That and my mother took ill.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.”

The bartender turned from the shelf, arm swinging out to begin pouring, but Quarles halted him with a gesture.

“Top shelf.” Quarles told the bar tender, looking over at Tim who tried to subdue the formation of a shit-eating grin.

“Makers Mark.” Tim supplied, and then watched the bartender turn about and replace the well bottle and reach for the brand name.

“You were saying about your mother.”

“Nah,” Tim waved off, “She’s fine now. A little too fine, sometimes. She has a real love and joy for pestering me to settle down and give her grandkids. Bless her heart, I’m not sure she fully understands that I’m not going to marry a girl and make kids the old fashioned way.”

Quarles’ shifted on his stool and muffled what could have been a nervous laugh if he’d let it slip. He dropped his hand from his lap, shielding it from view.

“At least you didn’t settle down, have kids and then figure out who you really were.”

Tim gave a slight nod and nursed the whiskey Quarles’ had bought him. Quarles lifted his hand from his side and brought it to the glass, turning it around with both sets of fingers as he looked down at it.

“The ring tends to be a real turn off. It’s a real shame I forgot to take it off before meeting someone who actually interests me.”

Tim set his glass down on the bar and glanced over, giving a shrug.

“Good thing flattery goes far with me or I’d have to run up your tab and duck out the back when you went to piss.”

Tim maintained a straight face and turned back to stare straight ahead at the shelved liquor, lifting his glass up for a sip. Quarles had no other response than to laugh as he twisted the band off his finger and slipped it into his pocket.

“Oh, that’s a lot less awkward.” Tim teased, “Don’t hide your marital status on my account. I clearly have no qualms about petitioning to be the other woman.”

“If you turn out to be the other _woman_ then I’m absolutely barking up the wrong tree.”

“Barking up my tree? Well, that’s good to know. By the way, I can attest to the authenticity of my genitalia. I’m sure I could even scare up some references if you’re not convinced by personal assurances.”

“You’re a sarcastic little shit, aren’t you?”

“No, sir. I’m just being clever for the sheer joy of it.”

“I really don’t have any response to that. Would you care to leave the safety of this bar and play a game of pool? There may be eye contact involved, but I don’t want to pressure you.”

“Eye contact isn’t the problem,” Tim said, sliding off his bar stool as easily as he would dismount a horse, “but if you want me to absolutely destroy you at the pool table, I will oblige.”

 


End file.
